Sex Sent Me to the ER (no, seriously)
by GhostInTheBAU
Summary: Stiles loses his V-Card, and it lands him in the ER. Derek worries.
1. No hand to penis contact

_**Rating: MATURE**_

_**_**Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale**_**_

_**Tags/Warnings: Everybody Lives, Stiles is legal, and he's really excited about it, Established Relationship, Loss Of Virginity, Porn With Plot, Dirty Talk, Safe Words, Blowjobs, Anal Sex, Derek's got a big dick****, Stiles gets a little too enthusiastic, I****njured Stiles, Hurt Stiles, Worried Derek, Protective Derek, Scared Derek, Derek's kind of a mess, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Stiles' brain to mouth filter, or lack thereof, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, Hospitals, Medical Procedures**_

This story was inspired by an article I saw entitled: "Lover ruptures his airway while giving oral sex to well-hung partner"

Stiles doesn't actually rupture his airway, but he still ends up in the ER, and Derek is kind of a mess about it. Chapters will be added as they're edited, because this was supposed to be a short little one shot, but Stiles kind of ran away with it.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Sadly, there's been no hand to penis contact**

.

Stiles Stilinski has just turned eighteen.

He's a legal adult, whether he should be considered one or not; and let's be real, there are times when he probably shouldn't be.

But still, he is.

He can vote now, and join the military, and be called for jury duty. If he wanted to he could go out and buy a lottery ticket...or, with a little more preparation, even a house or a car—although he loves Roscoe and would never ever dream of replacing him unless absolutely necessary.

Hell, he can finally have sex with someone without his dad threatening to shoot them!

That last perk is probably the most important one as far as Stiles is concerned, because he is totally into it.

Completely on board—just go ahead and pull up that anchor, set sail for the high seas, he's ready to fucking go.

He's so ready to lose his V-Card.

Like, so, _so _ready.

So yeah, he's legal.

They'd had a big party for him and everything, a sort of celebration into adulthood out in the preserve, complete with hot dogs and hamburgers courtesy of his father's mad grilling skills. Mrs. McCall had even brought her famous potato salad—the one that Stiles _loves,_ the one he's begged her to give him the recipe to for years—along with some baked beans and a salad, because party or not, his dad still needs to watch his cholesterol.

Erica, Lydia and Allison had spent a good portion of their time sunbathing, and consequently blessing everyone else with the sight of their gorgeous, swimsuit-clad bods.

Stiles, Scott, Boyd and Isaac all practiced lacrosse drills with each other while the girls got their tan on; and Derek had kept the sheriff and Melissa company so the old folks wouldn't feel left out of the day's festivities.

When they were all drenched in sweat and the sun had gotten to be too hot, the whole pack—including his dad and Scott's mom, and yes, even the big bad alpha Derek Hale—had converged on the lake to cool off. Several rousing games of chicken soon followed, and the majority of the matches were won by Berica and Sterek, respectfully, because they're awesome and they rock.

Scallison was a close third.

And then, to top it all off, after everyone was fed and tired, happy and waterlogged, they'd made S'mores by a campfire and watched the stars come out. Lydia took it upon herself to give everyone a crash course on the specific constellations visible in their hemisphere, pointing out exactly where to find each one in the night sky; and Stiles had even caught a glimpse of a shooting star while he'd been curled up in Derek's arms.

It was all pretty amazing.

His favorite part of the entire day, though, by far, without a doubt, had been when the alpha had quietly pulled him aside, leading him away from all the commotion so they could spend some quality time together, alone. They'd walked hand in hand through the trees until they'd reached a clearing in the woods, where Derek had a whole set up ready and waiting—complete with picnic blankets, sparkling cider, and a small birthday cake sitting out just for the two of them to share.

.

"_Oh my god, Der, really? This is so awesome!" He flung himself into the wolf's waiting arms, legs wrapping tight around Derek's waist, arms circling the man's neck as he peppered happy, hyper kisses along his stubbled jaw. Big hands were instantly on his ass, holding him up, and he gave his body a little wiggle, letting out a seductive purr as he asked, "Do you think you could fuck me just like this?" out of the blue. The hands on him instantly tightened their hold, and Stiles felt a low growl rumbling up from the depths of the chest he was pressed tight against. It sent a thrill through him. "You like the thought of that, huh?" he smirked, leaning in, licking a long, slow stripe up Derek's pulse point to the sensitive skin behind his ear. "The big bad wolf wants to come out an play, doesn't he?" he whispered, "He wants to show me how strong he is. Wants to give it to me so good, right?"_

"Stiles."

_The name came out as more of a snarl than anything else. A clear warning to shut his mouth._

_It made him smile._

"_I'm looking forward to seeing exactly what you've got planned for me later tonight, big guy," he murmured, then laid a wet, sloppy kiss on his boyfriend's cheek and made to hop down. Derek let him go easily. "But for right now, the only thing I wanna get my mouth on is that cake over there."_

_The older man rolled his eyes at Stiles' wild antics, but his lips quirked up in a grin as they sat down on the blankets together, betraying his true feelings and giving his fondness away. _

_Softywolf._

_Stiles could also see him attempting to quietly and discreetly adjust himself in his pants, but he was clearly failing. Miserably. It was hilarious. _

"_Shut up," Derek grouched, but there was only affection behind the words, and Stiles smiled again. He watched Derek place a single candle in the top of the cake and light it up. "Before we eat, you have to make a wish."_

_That caught him a little off guard._

_He didn't really know what to wish for. Honestly, he already had everything he'd ever wanted, as cliché as that sounded._

_Except for, you know, his mom, obviously. But that wasn't something that was ever going to happen, and there was no sense in wallowing in it. She wasn't coming back._

_He did know that she'd want him to be happy, though, he was pretty sure about that; and he hoped beyond hope that if she could see him now she'd be proud of him._

_Proud of her little Mischief._

_So that's what he wished for—for his mom to be proud of him, wherever she was._

_Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the candle._

_Derek handed him a fork, and they dug in._

"_Red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting...oh my god, dude, it's like a literal orgasm in my mouth," Stiles mumbled, thirty seconds later, as he stuffed another huge bite of said cake in said mouth. He let out a long, low, horribly obscene moan as the creamy sugar melted on his tongue, and Derek dropped his fork._

_It was the best._

.

It really had been the best.

All of it.

He'd spent the entire day surrounded by the most important people in his life.

His family.

His best friends.

His hunky boyfriend.

Pack.

Yep, totally the absolute best.

But now the party's over...and Stiles is alone with the aforementioned hunky boyfriend. Alone, and one hundred percent legal, and brimming with so much pent up sexual frustration, energy and desire that he feels like he's about to burst at the seams.

He's going to explode if he doesn't get some serious action, ASAP. It'll be messy, and traumatizing, and all around not good.

You see, Derek and he, they've been an item for a while now—over a year, in fact.

His dad hadn't been too keen on the idea at first. He didn't like the thought of his, at the time, sixteen year old son dating a twenty-two year old man. He'd been understandably upset; but Stiles had chipped away at him, gently, little by little. He'd worn his father down, oh so lovingly, until the man had eventually acquiesced.

But, unfortunately for them, there had also been certain stipulations put in place when his dad gave them his blessing, the worst of which being the 'absolutely no funny business while Stiles is underage' rule. Derek, for his part, had wholeheartedly and enthusiastically agreed to the demand.

Stiles had agreed as well, of course, but not quite as enthusiastically. He still doesn't know if the reason Derek agreed so quickly was because he was afraid of the sheriff, because he was trying to be respectful of the man, or because he was just completely and utterly unwilling to be anything at all like that bitch, Kate-fucking-Argent.

Not that Derek could ever, in a million trillion years, be anything like her.

But still, that's why they'd had to wait, and Stiles understands, he really, truly does.

They'd wanted to appease his dad, but they'd also waited because Derek didn't want to take advantage of a teenage boy in any way, shape or form—even if said teenage boy had already known exactly what he'd wanted from the very beginning.

The very beginning being the day he'd first laid eyes on the broody werewolf out in the woods with Scott.

That was always going to be an issue with Derek, though—consent and things of the like—and that was okay. Stiles would always, _always _support him in whatever way he could.

Even if that meant waiting.

And waiting, and waiting.

But they're not saints.

No siree. Definitely not.

They've done some things together. Certain things the sheriff never, ever has to know about.

There's been kissing—like, a whole _lot _of kissing—and a little frottage, and a bit of sexting now and then; but true to their word, pants have always remained firmly in place and hands have never roamed inside the waistlines of those immovable pants.

Sadly, there's been no hand to penis contact.

Or penis to penis contact.

Or anything fun like that, really.

They're off now, though.

The pants, that is.

After the party he'd packed a bag and told his dad he was staying at Derek's. He'd heard a resigned sigh and a faint reply of "I don't wanna know any of the details" as he'd hopped in the Jeep and headed out.

Ignorance is bliss and all that.

So _hell _to the _yes_, you can bet the pants are freaking off, along with every other article of clothing they'd both been wearing when they'd tumbled into the loft together.

Because they can do that now.

Because he's _legal._

.


	2. I'm not done playing with your dick yet

_It looks like this story will have six chapters in total, and I'll try to post at least once a week, but hopefully more. It all depends on how editing goes, though, and life in general. _

_Anyway, this chapter is a lot longer, and pretty much all sex. Stiles and Derek both get a little carried away, but everything that happens between them is still very much consensual, I assure you. And also very much enjoyed._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**I'm not done playing with your amazing dick yet**

.

Stiles and Derek have waited a long time to have sex, and they've waited patiently.

So very patiently.

It hasn't always been easy, either, what with all the teenage hormones wreaking havoc inside his body literally all the time; but tonight that torturous wait is over.

_Finally._

It's finally over, and he currently finds himself straddling Derek's bare thighs as he stares down at the dick he's only had the pleasure of feeling through several layers of clothing before now. It's a bit intimidating, actually. Not because he's not ready to be with Derek or anything like that, but simply because it's motherfucking _huge._

Stiles knew his boyfriend was bigger than the average guy; he could surmise that without actually having to see it up close and personal. Honestly, though, everyone and their dog probably knew Derek was pretty well-endowed.

It was kinda hard to miss.

But now that it's _right there,_ right in front of his face in all its naked, glistening glory, he realizes that he's maybe kind of underestimated it a little bit.

Or a lot.

Because it's massive.

Colossal, even.

And he's done his research on the subject, so he knows what he's talking about, okay?

The male circumcision rabbit hole he'd fallen down sophomore year? Yeah, that had been extremely educational, so he knows that the average size of an erect human penis—or werewolf penis, whatever—is approximately 5.16 inches.

He himself is slightly above average, coming in at just under six inches. That puts him in the sixty-first percentile, which ain't too shabby if he says so himself.

But Derek...well, Derek's dick is _not_ average.

It's large, and in charge.

We're talking porn star proportions.

It's a good eight and a half inches in length, which puts him in the coveted ninety-ninth percentile; and Stiles knows that, too—because he freaking _measured _it.

.

"_Really, Stiles?" Derek looked up at him as Stiles held the measuring tape aloft in his hands, and he quirked a suspiciously judgmental brow._

"_Yes, Derek, really. This is essential knowledge, okay? _Essential. _I _need_ to know this kinda info about my hotter than the sun boyfriend. It's super important. Besides," he smirked, "I'm comparing notes with the girls later, and I wanna win. I'm sooo gonna win..."_

"_You're completely ridiculous."_

"_Yeah, but you like it. Don't even front."_

_Derek just laughed in answer, crossing his arms behind his head and laying back on the bed, stark naked, letting Stiles do his thing._

_It was admission enough, really._

.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Derek asks, meeting Stiles' wondrous gaze, "Because we can ease you into it if you'd rather. It's kind of a lot to handle all at once, so...you know, we could just do a little at a time. Go slow. No pressure, no expectations."

"Oh no," he counters, shaking his head, "There's plenty of expectations, mister. Tons of 'em. Big, sexy, hot—even, dare I say it, _lurid _expectations." He grins, flashing his teeth; but gentles his voice a bit when he sees the concern etched on the older man's face. "I'm ready for this, Der. I promise. I'm like, _so _ready...and besides, I trust you. You know I trust you, and I love you, and I wanna do this because I wanna be with you. _You. _All of you..." He takes a moment to appreciate the view, running his tongue along his lower lip as he lets it all sink in. "Damn," he sighs, all dreamy-like, "I've been dying to get my mouth all over you, babe."

"Yeah?"

"Mmmm...yeah. Wanna lick every inch of you, suck you, _blow_ you..."

Something in Derek's mood shifts then, the worry in his features melting away, smoothing out the crease between his bushy brows as his cheeks pink up, and Stiles takes that as his cue to move ahead with the evening's festivities.

He lets his eyes trail down the rigid contours of Derek's statuesque chest and abs, once again appreciating every inch of the toned body laid out before him, tracing the smooth skin and dark little happy trail he's only seen teasing glimpses of before tonight. His hands start to roam of their own volition while Derek still just lays there, relaxed, letting Stiles play, letting him have his fill, fingers dancing down until they involuntarily curl around velvety warm skin, hard and long and leaking for him. For _him!_

This bod is all for him.

Wow.

How is this his _life?_

Derek lets out a strangled hiss at his touch, and Stiles looks up to see the other man's eyes closed and his mouth open in something akin to pure bliss.

He simpers and brings his attention back down to where he's started lightly stroking Derek's dick, his other hand coming up to gently cup his palm over the ball sac beneath, large and heavy and warm, nestled snugly in a forest of dark pubic hair. He carefully rolls both orbs between his fingers, getting a feel for their weight and texture, and then leans down to give the now straining shaft in his grip an experimental little lick. It's timid and kitten shy, but still, the action has Derek's hips rising up off the bed as a lusty moan leaves his mouth.

That response is both glorious and amazing as far as Stiles is concerned, and he wants to make it happen again.

And again and again.

Over and over.

All the time.

He feels powerful, knowing he can elicit such a visceral reaction from his big, strong wolf; and it eggs him on, giving him the courage to be bolder, braver, sluttier even—until he's just hungrily running the flat of his tongue all the way up the underside of Derek's erection, following the large vein there from base to crown, licking his cock like it's a goddamn fucking lollipop.

"Jesus, fuck," Derek groans, clawed hands fisting into the sheets on either side of him, "Sti...fuck, Stiles, baby. Your _mouth_...god, your mouth is a dream. Feels so good...want more of it. Want it around me. Come on, baby, come on..."

Hornywolf.

Stiles snickers as the name enters his mind, but he doesn't dare say anything about it out loud. He doesn't want to ruin the mood. Instead, he does what was asked of him, his hand circling around the base of Derek's cock to keep it steady as his lips slowly wrap around the head and start suckling. He swallows down the salt-bitter spark of precome that bursts into his mouth, and then begins milking more out of the tip as he starts sucking in earnest.

A few seconds later a heavy hand lands in his hair and stays there, not pushing him down or anything, but just simply being there, a steady presence. Human fingernails scratch softly at his scalp, encouraging him on as he starts to bob up and down, working his mouth farther along the impressive length with every descent, taking in a little more each time, pushing himself to go farther, deeper, _more more more, _until he feels the head finally hit the back of his throat.

That's when his gag reflex kicks in with a vengeance and he has to pull completely off, coughing and sputtering to draw in oxygen. He may have forgotten to breathe there for a while, too, but he's not entirely sure. He'd just been so lost in the moment, concentrating solely on making this the most amazing, absolute very best blowjob Derek Hale has ever had.

Admittedly, Stiles has, at times, been known to be a bit of an overachiever.

Derek quickly sits up and pats him on the back a few times, rubbing his palm up and down along the curve of Stiles' spine; and the coughing abates soon after. "You okay?" he asks, giving Stiles a smug as hell grin to go along with the question.

"Yeah, just peachy," he huffs, taking a calming breath, "Now, back down. I'm not done playing with your amazing dick yet."

He manhandles Derek until they're back in their previous positions, Stiles straddling Derek's legs; and then he dives right back into what he'd been doing like a moth to a flame.

Or a kid in a candy store.

Like he hasn't eaten in days and he's fucking starving for it—because he kind of is.

Starving for it.

Metaphorically, at least.

He's hungry for more of everything with Derek—anything he can get.

He does take things a little slower, though, easing back into it, keeping his lips tight and hollowing his cheeks on the upstrokes until he feels the head of Derek's dick start to tickle the back of his throat again. He gags, but powers through, easing up until he feels like he's in control of his reflexes, then picking the pace back up once more.

His movements are somewhat vigorous after that, and also kind of hazy, really. He thinks he zones out for a bit, like he's gotten into a groove, or a trance, or hell, a fucking spirit walk—_something_—and the only thing he knows anymore is this man's smell, all earthy and crisp; the way he tastes on Stiles' tongue, salty-sweet and slick; the way he feels beneath Stiles hands, rock hard and strong.

How much Stiles loves him, a whole hell of a lot more than he ever thought possible.

Derek moans and pants his name, chanting _Stiles, baby, Sti _over and over like it's a goddamn _prayer _as his body writhes; and that just fuels Stiles on, sending a thrill if heat spiking low in his groin, coiling there, deep inside him until he's wet and dripping, soaking with want.

"Stiles," Derek groans, "You're so good, baby...so good, so hot. I love you so much, and your mouth...god, I love your fucking _mouth."_

Stiles can't help but smirk around the heavy flesh between his lips. Apparently Derek's got a major _thing _for Stiles' mouth all over his cock. And it feels good to be able to do this to him, too—to be able to pull those filthy words out of Derek, to hear the moans and the pants that fill the room, to see the body below him squirming—knowing that he's the one making the big bad alpha fall apart.

Derek starts pushing up to meet him, just little movements at first, and Stiles adjusts to it, allows it. He tries to drown everything else out and focus on hollowing his cheeks and sucking along the shaft, swirling his tongue around the oozing head and sliding down the smooth slit, memorizing every taste, every contour, every vein.

Every inch.

Soon there's a hand curling around his skull again.

"Damn, I wanna fuck your mouth so bad," Derek all but pleads, fingers threading through his hair and fisting in the strands, holding tight, "Can I, Sti?" His head is suddenly pushed down to meet Derek's jutting hips, "Can I—can I fuck your mouth?"

He can't exactly answer because he can't really talk at the moment, but they'd discussed the possibility of something like this happening ahead of time. They have safe words in place, both verbal and non-verbal, so he gives him their sign for 'all systems go'—three quick taps on Derek's thigh—and the next thing he knows, the other man has taken over completely.

He's just along for the ride now, and that's okay—he knows how to put an immediate stop to it if it's not.

He doesn't want to stop it, though, not even close; so he lets go and let's Derek's hand push him down over the huge cock in his mouth. Every pass is met with an increasingly forceful thrust up, until Derek's literally fucking his face, lost in bliss, praising Stiles for how good it all feels, how amazing he is, how much he loves him.

He's gagging some, of course, and his throat starts to burn a little, and his eyes are watering, but he figures that's simply because he's never done this sort of thing before.

Derek seems to gentle his movements several times throughout, whenever he notices Stiles' obvious discomfort, and asks if he's alright; but Stiles merely shrugs the concern away and tries to soldier through—tries to relax his muscles and just take it all, take everything Derek wants to give him.

Because he can handle it.

Because he's good.

He's still hard, after all, still dripping precome all over the sheets, so the rough treatment is definitely doing _something _for him.

He fucking _likes_ it.

A lot.

He always did think he might have a few masochistic tendencies.

But right when he's getting back into the pleasure-trance-groove of blowing and licking and sucking, Derek's body goes stock still and rigid. "Stop. You—you gotta stop, Sti," he all but whines through gritted teeth—actually _whines_—and Stiles does stop, pulling off instantly. "I'm gonna come. I'm so close, baby, so fuckin' close; but I wanna be in you first. Wanna feel you from inside," he pants, moving his hand from the back of Stiles' head to instead cup his cheek, gentle and soft. Their eyes meet, and Stiles feels warm all over. "Is that okay?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, sure..." he gives a little nod and a hum, licking at his bottom lip, "Of course. That's _so_ okay."

He is definitely all for that.

Hell, he's already been prepped, even. It was part of their foreplay, which he's grateful for now because he doesn't wanna waste any time.

So he scrambles quickly off Derek and grabs the lube they'd used earlier from the bedside table, then lays down on his back in the spot Derek's vacated for him. The wolf rolls to a crouch above him, taking the bottle as he settles between his spread thighs. A moment later, two slick fingers are probing him, massaging his rim and then sliding in and out of his hole with ease, and Stiles moans at the feel, heat filling his groin. He rocks down, spreading his legs farther, needing more, needing to be filled; and Derek obliges with the addition of a third finger.

"Oh my god," he sighs and then swallows, his throat a bit sore and his voice scratchy. He tamps down the tickle of a cough he can feel lingering. "Der, come on. We already did this part, remember? You loosened me up real good—so good, babe...so less with the fingering, more with the dicking. That's what we need right now. What _I_ need. I really need you to fuck me."

There's a chuckle above him as the fingers slip free, leaving him empty and wanting. But then he's watching Derek slather copious amounts of thick, shiny lube on his colossal dick and he kind of zones out again.

The next thing he knows, there's blunt pressure pushing against his hole.

Derek's perched above him, covering him with his sweat-slick body, one hand braced on the bed beside his head while the other helps guide that massive cock in the right direction.

And then there's a burn.

It's hot and instant, insistent, stretching him impossibly wide; and he flails a little because _oh my god, what if it doesn't all fit?_

What if it breaks him, or rips up something really important down there? Like, _really fucking important?_

Derek's picked up on his panic by now, because of course he has. He stops advancing, just the tip inside as he looks down at Stiles. "Are you okay? What is it? What's wrong?"

"What if it doesn't fit?!" is the first thing that jumps out of his mouth, and Derek laughs. He motherfucking _laughs. _"I'm _serious_, Jerkwolf!"

"It's gonna be okay, Stiles." He sobers and looks Stiles right in the eyes, and there's that sweet warmth again, flooding his senses. Stiles is so gone for this man. So fucking gone. "I'll take it slow, and I'm not planning on bottoming out, okay?"

"Okay." He sinks back into the bed, trying to relax his body as much as possible. "Yeah, that...that sounds good. Just, you know, go slow."

"I will. I'll go slow," Derek promises, leaning down to put his weight on his forearms, boxing Stiles in and maintaining eye contact as he inches his hips forward. "We'll go so slow, baby. So slow..." he purrs, little thrusts in and out, in and out, and Stiles' body warms up to the intrusion. It feels like a lot—because it _is _a lot—a lot of stretching and pressure, but it's good, too.

A good burn, a good pressure.

Really good.

So fucking good.

Derek knows what to do to take care of him, and again he's just along for the ride, his legs curling around the man's waist as his mouth is taken up in a searing kiss, tongues slipping over one another, all hot slide and wet heat. He listens to the rhythmic creak of the bed as it groans beneath their shared weight, feels the heavy drag of Derek's cock inside him, the delicious push-pull, push-pull that brings him closer and closer to the edge, little drops of ecstasy teasing him, trickling slowly down his spine, filling his dick.

He can almost taste the sweat-damp air around them, thick, salty, soaking their skin.

It's slow, and it's steady, and it's amazing. Derek probably only gets half his dick in Stiles' ass when it's all said and done, but still, it's _good._

Better than good.

It's so much more, actually.

It's careful and soft.

Hot and sweet.

Pure and real.

It's sappy as all hell, but he swears he can feel Derek's love for him like it's a solid object, an anchor, guiding him. It permeates the room and envelopes him, protects him, takes _such _good care of him.

He can only hope that Derek's feeling at least a fraction of the same thing from him.

"I love you, so damn much. You know that, right? How much I love you?" he murmurs, just in case, and Derek gives him a blinding smile, all sparkling sea foam eyes and perfect bunny teeth.

"Of course I know, baby." A warm hand circles his weeping cock and starts pumping, jerking him off in time with every thrust Derek gives him. "I love you, too. I love everything about you. Every part of you. Love seeing you just like this...under me...around me...wanna see you fall apart. Wanna watch you come all over yourself, Sti..."

Those words _do _something to Stiles, deep down in his soul or whatever, and he can feel his climax beginning to roil over him, growing, building, strengthening—until Derek suddenly switches it up, changing the angle of his hips and hitting that perfect spot inside him. The spot that ends up being his complete and total undoing, that pushes him over the precipice, sends him flying off the pinnacle of bliss as hot ropes of come spurt messy between them.

His vision blurs.

Euphoria and elation seem to take over every aspect of his existence as his body spasms, and he cries out praises to his lover and alpha while the wolf fucks him through all the quaking aftershocks of his orgasm.

The best orgasm, oh my _god._

Derek pulls out soon after, and Stiles hears a downright pornographic _fwap fwap fwapping _sound fill the room as the other man begins to jerk himself off hard and fast. It doesn't take long, and soon he's shooting his load all over Stiles' stomach, their come mixing on his skin, combining their scents, tying them together across the planes of his quivering body.

Derek's bent over him—grunting, and huffing, and growling—a red gleam seeping into his gaze as he hungrily smears the mess they've made together across Stiles' heaving chest and abdomen.

And that...is so much hotter than it has any right to be, holy hell.

Apparently he's got a thing for comeplay.

Who fucking knew?

A lot of heavy breathing and shaking follows as they both slowly come down from the high of culmination, and they just stare into each other's eyes, basking in the climactic afterglow.

Eventually, though, that afterglow fades and Stiles' skin starts to feel cold and sticky.

Itchy.

He makes a disgruntled noise that he hopes Derek interprets as 'I love you, but this shit is gross'; and apparently Derek does, in fact, interpret it correctly, because he gets up and goes to the bathroom only to return a moment later with a warm wash cloth.

They get cleaned up rather quickly, pull on boxers and t-shirts, and crawl back beneath the covers of Derek's big, comfy bed.

It's cozy and warm as the wolf curls around him, strong arms wrapping him up in a protective embrace; and Stiles just lets himself melt, nuzzling into the hold, his back snug and flush against the chiseled chest behind him.

He's content.

He's happy.

He's sated.

His ass isn't even that sore—which, that's gotta be some kind of a miracle or something. The only thing really troubling him is the persistent little tickle-scratch-ache sensation he keeps feeling in the back of his throat. He tries to clear it a few times, to no avail, and Derek makes a questioning sound against his neck. "You feeling okay?" he asks, already sounding half out of it.

"Oh, yeah, 'course I'm feeling okay. Better than. How could I not be okay after all that? It was fucking amazing, and I loved it. I love _you."_ He grins, even though Derek can't see it, and pulls the man's arm tighter around him. "Just, you know, that was my first time giving head. It was my first time doing pretty much all of that, actually. Like, _all of it. _My body probably has no idea what to think about the whole 'not being a virgin anymore' thing. It's in total shock."

They both have a chuckle at that, and he silently writes the discomfort off as a simple consequence of attempting to deep throat Derek's ginormous monster dick.

He'll get better with practice, he's sure of it.

He smiles at that titillating thought, then hears a softly murmured "I love you, too" right before he closes his eyes and drifts to sleep.

.


	3. Worrywolf

**Chapter Three**

**Worrywolf**

.

Stiles wakes up some time later coughing.

As far as he can tell, it's still the middle of the night because there's no light filtering in from the huge windows in the bedroom. The loft is quiet and dark. He glances at the alarm clock next to him and groans when he sees that it's 1:47am.

He'd been asleep for less than two hours.

Derek grumbles something unintelligible behind him, probably in response to all the noise Stiles is making, and the mattress dips as he rolls over, leaning up on his elbow and squinting blearily when the bedside lamp is turned on. "Y'okay?" he mumbles, hair sleep-mussed and voice groggy.

"Yeah, sure. Just, you know, gotta take a piss is all." His own voice doesn't sound any better, honestly. It sounds worse. Way worse. "Um," he clears his throat and adds, "Maybe get a drink of water, too."

Probably not a bad idea.

As he sits up, though, he realizes that it actually sort of hurts to breathe. His hand comes up to rub absently at his chest, and he swallows—tries to clear his throat once more—then stands, shrugging the discomfort off as he heads to the bathroom to do his business. He just needs to move around a bit, get his blood flowing, clear his head.

He hears Derek get up as well, presumably to go fetch him something to drink, just like the sweetwolf boyfriend he truly is.

When he comes back into the bedroom a few minutes later, said sweetwolf has already returned and is sitting on the edge of the bed, a half-full glass of ice water in his hand, waiting for him.

And yawning.

He takes a small sip of the offered drink, but the cold liquid hurts going down, and all it really ends up doing is leading to more coughing; and now there's an ache deep in his throat and upper chest too.

It's a bit disconcerting.

"Dude, I don't know what's wrong with me, but my throat hurts like a bitch. It feels like I swallowed broken glass, or fucking razor blades, or something—"

His words are abruptly cut off when he suddenly coughs again, but this time it's so much worse than before, all sharp and hacking and violent. Derek hastily takes the cup from him before he can drop it, replacing it with a tissue instead; and he puts it over his mouth and just tries to hold on—tries to endure the onslaught of the attack—his eyes watering from the effort as he leans against Derek's form, strong and solid beside him, letting the man take most of his weight so he doesn't fall over.

At least it keeps him on his feet.

When the spasms in his throat finally abate, he pulls the cloth away from his lips and takes in a timid, shaky breath, then another, and another, grateful for the reprieve.

He's slowly calming down, slowly getting his wits about himself, standing up on his own; and Derek lets him go when he seems steady enough, when he doesn't feel like he's about to pass out. Unfortunately his solace only lasts a few seconds more, though, because when they simultaneously look down at what he's still clutching tight in his hand they both freeze, and cold dread washes over him, pooling in the pit of his stomach.

There are several bright red spots soaking into the tissue, saturating it.

That's about the time when Derek proceeds to _freak the fuck out_.

"What the hell? Stiles, you're coughing up blood!" He's all up in Stiles' personal space again in an instant, big hands cradling either side of his face, thumbs gently wiping his tears away as their eyes meet.

By this point, Derek's startled reaction has set off Stiles' own anxiety and he can't seem to take in enough air—or it feels like he can't, anyway. He's hyperventilating, he knows; and his throat burns, and he's coughing up _blood,_ apparently.

Oh joy.

He thinks he might be on the verge of a massive panic attack, and he doesn't know what the hell to do about any of it.

"Damn it, Sti, I was afraid something like this was gonna happen. I was too rough with you last night. I knew it, I did, but I let myself get carried away anyway—_fuck._ Are you having any trouble breathing?" Derek asks, after he's finished thoroughly berating himself. Stiles gives him a shrug and a 'so-so' gesture with his hand that does absolutely nothing at all to ease the worry on his boyfriend's face. "Shit. Okay. Stiles, baby, listen to me. We need to get you to the hospital. Right now."

And there's that panic again.

"Oh, no," he protests, wildly shaking his head, his voice raspy and tight, heart pounding in his chest, "No no no, Derek, I can't go to the hospital." If what Derek seems to think happened is what _actually _happened to him, he can't go to the hospital and tell the doctors and nurses what brought him there. He just can't. This isn't _Sex Sent Me to the ER_, for fuck's sake. This is real life. _His_ real life, and it's _mortifying._ "I'm not going. No way. I mean, come on, what the hell am I supposed to say to them when they inevitably ask me why I'm there?! 'Oh, nothing much really...it's just that, you see, I got a little carried away sucking my boyfriend's monster cock like I was starving for it. You know, as one does...like any respectable _son of the county sheriff._...' No. Nope. No no no. Absolutely not, Derek, I can't _say _that!"

Derek has the nerve to respond with, "Well, I wouldn't phrase it like that," and Stiles gapes at him.

_Gapes._

The man lets out a sigh and continues, "Look, they're medical professionals, Stiles; they're not gonna think anything of it. And besides, you're a legal adult, you can do whatever you want with whoever you want. And if you're worried about people finding out, there's privacy laws in place to protect you from that..."

"Melissa, though," he counters, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, "She could be working. What if she's working, huh? What if she tells Scott? Or..." his eyes widen in horror as the realization hits him, "Oh my god, Derek, what if she tells my _dad?!"_

"No, Stiles, it'll be fine. It will. Just—baby, _please_...let's go. Let's just go and get you checked out, make sure you're alright. That's what's important right now. The most important thing, okay? Your well-being is all that matters. We'll worry about the rest of it later."

He glances back down at the tissue in his hand and chews on his lip even more. It's not _that _much blood, really. It looked like a lot before, but that was because it was so unexpected. It had shocked him, is all. Now that he's calmed down some he can see that it's just a bit of spotting; but he also knows that he's not getting out of this.

Definitely not.

There's no way.

Derek's really worried, and when Derek's this worried he gets even more protective of him, like, _ultra_ protective; and he will literally drag Stiles' ass kicking and screaming to the ER if he has to.

Stiles versus an overprotective alpha werewolf is always a losing battle—he's learned that from experience—so he might as well relent and just go willingly.

"Okay," he sighs, his voice still scratchy and hoarse from the earlier abuse, "Let's just...go and get the humiliation over with, I guess."

.

* * *

.

Derek keeps looking at him on the drive to the hospital.

Every few seconds, without fail, Stiles can literally _feel_ the wolf's gaze flit over to him, and the weight of it is making him even more nervous and anxious than he was before. It's like Derek expects him to kick the bucket any second now, and it's really starting to freak him out.

Yes, he's having a little bit of trouble taking in enough air—which, okay, that's slightly worrying, he'll admit.

And yes, his throat hurts like a mother—which, ow.

And yes, he's still coughing up streaks of red and pink-tinged mucous—which, so gross. Seriously. So freaking gross.

But he's also trying his damn best to stay as calm as he can about everything, and Derek isn't helping with that endeavor. At all.

"Dude, would you _please_ stop looking at me and just watch the road?"

The demand comes out a little strained, his voice nothing but a wheeze of air, and the effort it takes to get the words out throws him into a fabulous new coughing fit.

It really fucking sucks.

Derek says nothing in reply, just white-knuckles the steering wheel and speeds up.

.

* * *

.

When they arrive at the Emergency Room entrance, Derek hops out of the Camaro and passes the keys to the valet attendant before opening Stiles' door and helping him ease out of the car.

An arm snakes around his waist and starts leading him toward the double doors.

"Der, I can walk on my own," he grouses, and tries to pull away, but he doesn't get very far. "Dude, really?" he huffs, "Come on, let go..."

Derek doesn't let go, and he doesn't say anything in answer, not verbally anyway; but he does emit this sort of low, rumbling, sub-vocal _growl. _ It's a warning, clear and simple, and Stiles gives up the fight, allowing himself be led to the reception desk without further protest. It must be a wolf thing, he surmises. It's gotta be. Derek's on high alert right now, on edge. He's in full on 'protector mode', and Stiles just needs to go with it, needs to let him do his thing.

Let him be the strong, protective alpha werewolf boyfriend he was born to be.

He feels his lips curve up in a small smile before he can stop it.

"Worrywolf..." he murmurs, knowing good and well Derek will hear him.

Even if Derek doesn't actually acknowledge it.

"Hello," the triage nurse smiles at them as they approach, her eyes darting clinically up and down both their bodies, scrutinizing their appearance, probably assessing them for any visible injuries, "What's going on tonight?"

Stiles opens his mouth to answer but Derek gets there first.

Of course.

"He's having trouble breathing, and he's coughing up blood."

The arm around him tightens.

Such a worrywolf.

When the nurse looks to him in slight alarm Stiles merely gives her a shrug and a small nod of agreement, not particularly wanting to reiterate Derek's precise and to-the-point statement with a lot of painful, awful words.

His throat really hurts, okay?

His silence doesn't matter, though. Apparently a possibly compromised airway is a sure-fire way to get out of waiting in the lobby with all the other poor suckers—all the head colds, the stomach viruses, the broken arms—and he's taken back to a room immediately, much to Derek's obvious relief.

He's handed a blue and white checkered gown and told to change into it, leaving only his underwear on underneath; and then the nurse leaves, pulling the curtain to give him at least some semblance of privacy.

Derek helps him get changed and climb into the bed.

Once he's settled, a new nurse—Jenny, her name badge reads—comes in and introduces herself. She's friendly enough, but gets right down to business, hooking him up to a blood pressure cuff that instantly starts inflating around his upper arm. A little clip is attached to the index finger of his opposite hand, and a thermometer is placed in his ear, which beeps a mere second later. Jenny then pulls a stethoscope out of her scrub pocket and proceeds to listen intently to his chest and stomach. Finally, she asks him several questions—how much does he weigh, how tall is he, does he have any food or drug allergies, is he currently taking any medications—and he does his best to answer her.

While all this is going on, Derek's moved off to the side of the room, out of the way, and he's pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Fretting too, probably. His body looks rigid, his arms crossed over his broad chest and his face frozen in a deep scowl, jaw clenched. He's no doubt beating himself up over everything because that's his go to coping mechanism whenever things go wrong. He's got a martyr complex the size of Texas that Stiles has been trying to chip away at for a year.

It's a work in progress.

Obviously.

The cuff suddenly deflates, the machine connected to it letting out a soft hum, and the noise has him looking back to the nurse as she writes down all the readings on a little slip of paper. He must be doing okay, because she doesn't look too worried. Then again, medical professionals are probably pretty good at hiding their fear from poor, unsuspecting patients who are about to fucking die. They probably have to take a whole class on it or something.

Oh god. What if he's about to die?

That thought sends a tiny spike of fear and anxiety shooting through him, and his breath hitches, pitching him into another bout of painful coughing.

Derek's across the room and by his side before Stiles knows anything else, a warm hand rubbing up and down his back as he tries to literally cough up one of his goddamn lungs.

Or, that's what it _feels_ like, anyway.

It _hurts. _

His throat and chest burn, and his eyes start to water from the pain of it all. Another tissue is placed against his mouth, probably to stop him from spewing bodily fluids all over himself and the area around him, and he does his best to ride out the fit until it's over.

But the tension suddenly fades away from him a moment later and his body involuntarily relaxes back against Derek's strong hand.

The hand that's slipped below his hospital gown and is now suspiciously touching bare skin.

The hand that Stiles just _knows _is covered in inky black veins as it draws his pain away and pulls it into Derek instead.

He'd be worried that Jenny-the-completely-normal-not-at-all-supernatural-nurse would notice, but the red spots dotting the Kleenex he's holding seem to have most of her attention so...he supposes that's a good thing?

Yay for distractions!

Derek doesn't seem to think it's very good, though. He's tense as he helps Stiles lie back against the pillows, fluffing them up for him and everything; and Jenny takes the tissue from him, placing it on the bedside table, then calmly meets Stiles' eyes.

"Your oxygen saturation seems to be a little low," she explains, pulling out a long, clear, flexible tube from a drawer underneath his bed. It kind of looks like a lasso, one end splitting into two small prongs, and he recognizes it immediately as something his mom always had to wear when she was in the hospital—a nasal cannula. "It's nothing to worry too much about at this point, but since your breathing is slightly labored as well, and since you've got some blood showing in your sputum, I'm going to go ahead and put you on a little supplemental oxygen for now."

She hooks the single end of the cannula to a green spout in the wall by the head of his bed. It looks sort of like a little upside down Christmas tree.

It's kinda cute.

Then she loops the other, circular end, around his ears and adjusts it all until the two little prongs are sitting snug in his nostrils. One quick turn of a dial by the cute little Christmas tree sends air flowing into his nose. It's cold, and it tickles, and he doesn't particularly like it. "Okay," she gives them both a small smile and hands him a remote, "The doctor will be in shortly to see you; but if you need anything before then, just hit the nurse call button."

He nods his understanding and she exits the room, leaving them alone in silence.

Heavy, loaded silence.

Brooding silence.

_Guilty_ silence.

The blood pressure cuff starts inflating again. It must be on a timer.

"Well, at least it doesn't look like Melissa's working tonight," Stiles murmurs, his voice weaker than before, "Oh, and I'm probably not dying since, you know, the nurse left us alone and all. So, that's a plus."

Derek lets out a long, deep sigh and pulls his hand away from where it had migrated from Stiles' back to his shoulder. He runs his fingers through his hair, leaving messy tufts of it jutting out in every direction, adorably unkempt as he turns and picks up a chair to set next to the bedside. He takes a seat, but doesn't say anything in reply, which, honestly, says plenty in and of itself.

"Der, babe, look...whatever's going on here, with me, it isn't your fault."

"It's not?" the wolf gives a self-deprecating huff, shaking his head, "It's not my fault...Stiles, you're in the ER—in the fucking _hospital_—because of me. Because I let myself go, so yes, this is completely and totally _my fault._ I forgot that you were just a—just, just a _human,_ and I hurt you. I'm a goddamn _werewolf,_ and I lost control, and I _hurt_ you. That's..." he pauses there, takes a slow breath, meets Stiles' gaze for the first time; and he looks like he's about to cry, _oh god._ "That's not okay," he continues, "It's not. You're hurt, Stiles. You're hurt, and that is _never_ okay with me. Never. Fuck, we shouldn't have done what we did. _I _shouldn't have. God, I shouldn't have done—"

"Hey hey hey, hold up," Stiles interrupts the downward spiral of self-loathing Derek's fallen into, putting his hands in the universal 'T for timeout' gesture. His throat hurts and his voice is crap, but he's got some shit to say, and he's gonna damn well say it, pain or no pain. "Cool your jets there, Sourwolf. This isn't on you, okay? Or, well, I mean, it's not _just _on you. I was there too, and I was definitely all about every single thing we did last night. All of it. You know I was, because your wolfy senses would have picked up on it if I wasn't. So stop blaming yourself. It was hot, and it felt great—fantastic, even. _Mind blowing._ And sure, I may have bitten off a little more than I could chew..." he stops there, and they both grimace a little at his poor choice of words, "but it was still fun. I remember our talk, and I remember our safe words. I could have dug my nails into your thigh at any time if I'd wanted you to stop, or if I didn't feel comfortable with what was going on; but I didn't do that. And do you know why I didn't do that, Derek? Because _I was okay with it._ I enjoyed it. A lot. So much. It was awesome, and I'd do it all again—" Derek quickly shakes his head in the negative at that, and Stiles relents, continuing on with, "Well, yeah, okay. Let me rephrase...I would do it again—_will _do it again—but maybe with a little less of the whole 'actually trying to swallow your dick' thing next time."

Just then the door opens and a man, early to mid-thirties, handsome, wearing a white lab coat over dark blue scrubs walks in, and effectively puts an abrupt end to their conversation. Stiles prays to every deity that might possibly be out there that the guy didn't hear what they'd been talking about.

He can feel his cheeks burning at the mere thought.

Fuck his life, seriously.

.


	4. I always need you

_There are brief mentions of the nogitsune in this chapter, and maybe a little PTSD on Stiles' part because of it._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**I always need you**

.

Dr. Owens, the emergency room resident on call, is attentive and thorough in his assessment.

First, though, before he gets to the physical part of the exam, he sits next to the bed and asks Stiles to give him a rundown on what's brought him to the ER this fine evening.

It's awesome.

"So, what's going on tonight, Mr. Stilinski?"

"I woke up coughing."

"Blood," Derek cuts in, oh so helpfully, "He was coughing up blood."

"There was a little blood," he concedes.

The doctor grunts in acknowledgment, his brow furrowing as he jots something down on his clip board. "How much blood is a little?"

"A few spots on a napkin," Stiles answers.

"_Bright red_ spots," Derek just has to emphatically add, "There were several bright red spots."

Dr. Owens gives them both a concerned look at that, then glances down at the tissue still sitting on the bedside table. "Can you think of anything that may have happened to cause that?" he asks, "Have you been ill recently? Or traveled outside the United States?"

Stiles shakes his head 'no'.

"Anything specific you may have done that could have led to you waking up coughing blood?" the man inquires, calm as can be. "An injury you obtained, maybe?"

Stiles' heart skips a beat, because here it comes, the moment he's been dreading.

The mortification.

Or, maybe the deflection.

Yeah, that works too.

Deflection totally works.

"Well doc, you see, here's what happened: I was practicing my killer sword swallowing routine last night, for this guy," he hooks his thumb over toward where Derek's sitting ramrod straight beside him, "and I was doing super great with it too, until my hand accidentally slipped and the sword fell down—_ow!"_

He's abruptly cut off by Derek's own hand grabbing his and squeezing in a not so loving manner. Also, he can practically _feel _the death glare the other man is shooting at him like it's a living, breathing thing; so he sighs and reluctantly starts his story over, with a little less fabrication and a little more truth.

The doctor just sits there patiently throughout the whole exchange like this is all completely normal behavior.

"Okay, _fine. _ But look, I'm eighteen, just so you know," he feels the need to say at the beginning, as a prelude, just in case it needs saying or something, "And I can most certainly make my own life choices, and whatever they are, they're mine, and they're perfectly fine, and acceptable, and, and...and I stand by them! All of 'em!"

The doctor just continues to stare at him, completely unfazed, giving him a nod and a quiet, "Uh huh."

It's unnerving.

Seriously.

Stiles doesn't know if the guy's just extremely used to witnessing squirrely-ass shit from his plethora of patients or if he's got an amazing poker face.

Either way, it's truly impressive.

And very professional.

He continues on.

"So, my boyfriend, Derek here, and me—I...I mean _I_," he glances toward his wolf, looking for some sort of support or comfort during this difficult time, but all he gets in return for his trouble is a look of utter shock and 'what the fuck'. He doesn't exactly know what he's supposed to do with that, and it's not helpful in the slightest, so he quickly averts his eyes and looks down at his lap instead. "We were getting kind of frisky...uh, hot and heavy, you know, _romantically,_ last night and..." he's about to lose his brain-to-mouth filter, he just knows it, he can feel it, "And Derek's freakin' hung, okay?" and yep, there it goes, "Like, we're talkin' hulk sized proportions or something, but, you know, not green or anything. Of course. 'Cause that would obviously be really super freaky and weird, and Derek's dick is definitely _not_ weird, like, at all. It's pretty great, actually. Fantastic even! A true gift to humanity, and to me. Mostly me, I guess. It's my gift, and I love it, and it was my first time..."

He trails off, his voice giving out and his throat hating him for all the work it's having to do—what with all the talking and the making an utter fool out of himself. He glances up at the doctor, who's _still_ just placidly staring at him, waiting for god knows what.

"Damn it...okay," he huffs, giving himself a little nod, attempting to psych himself up to just let it all out, rip the proverbial band aid off and all that, "Okay. So, here's the deal. I sucked Derek's humongous monster cock last night, and my throat's not that big, really, but I wanted it to be good for him, and like, it _was_. It was really, _really_ good. So good. But we may have maybe gotten a little carried away with everything, with the whole blowjob and fucking my face thing; and I may have sorta gagged a few times, choked and whatnot; but it was still great, and I'd do it all again because I'm an adult and I can make those kinds of decisions for myself...but I might not do it quite so aggressive-like the next time, you know?"

He stops babbling incessantly and looks between Derek and Dr. Owens again, who are now both staring at him in a sort of slack jawed awe, silent and shocked, and his cheeks burn even hotter. He can feel the heat of his blush clear in the tips of his damn ears.

How is this his _life? _

He knew this was gonna be mortifying.

Absolutely _mortifying. _

"So, yeah," he concludes, a bit more sedate, throat and brain both screaming at him to just shut the fuck up, "That's pretty much what went down—_oh my god—_no! I mean, what _happened._ That's what, um, that's what happened."

Derek's grip on his hand hasn't eased up in the slightest, and his fingers are going numb.

"I see." The doctor clears his throat and stands, moving closer to the bed. "Well, I must say, that is _quite_ a story you've got there, Mr. Stilinski; but it's not nearly the craziest thing I've ever heard. Or seen, for that matter."

"Oh yeah?" he rasps, the edge of his mouth quirking up despite himself, his curiosity piqued, "You got any good stories _you_ wanna share with the class?"

"Maybe later," the man chuckles, pulling his stethoscope from around his neck.

Stiles chances a glance at Derek again, and there's a bit of a pink hue painting his stubbled cheeks.

Embarrassedwolf.

It's pretty damn adorable.

Apparently the humiliation of having Stiles ramble on and on about his junk to a complete stranger isn't enough to run Derek off, though, because he just eases his hold on Stiles' hand—_finally—_and lifts it up to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting go and moving out of the way so the doctor can get on with his examination.

Stiles' stomach does a little flip flop at the sweet tenderness of the gesture.

Dr. Owens listens to his heart and lungs like the nurse did earlier, but he also has him take several deep breaths—which inevitably leads to more of the horrific and bloody coughing, so, that's awesome—and checks his reflexes. He jots down the most current blood pressure and oxygen readings and takes note of his last temperature check, then pulls out a pen light and has Stiles 'open wide and say ahhh' a few times. When that's all said and done he sits back down and gestures for Derek to rejoin them, then starts in on his spiel.

"Alright, Mr. Stilinski, here's the deal. Your vital signs look relatively good, but your respiratory rate is slightly elevated, and your oxygen saturation is sitting at ninety-one percent. That's a little low, and most likely due to the hyperventilation you're currently presenting with, but I'm gonna go ahead and keep you on the humidified O2 for now," he motions toward the cannula already in his nose before continuing, "Also, I'm ordering a CT scan with and without contrast to make sure you haven't damaged your pharynx or your larynx. The blunt force trauma you experienced earlier this evening may have fractured or torn something in your throat—muscles or cartilage, possibly even injured your vocal cords. And even though I feel it's highly unlikely that you've actually ruptured your airway, given that you're awake and talking to me right now, I'm going to go ahead and get an image of your trachea as well, just to cover all our bases."

Stiles' tenses up a bit at the mention of the scan—and also at the idea that he may have _ruptured his freaking airway, _holy hell—but he tries to shake off the cold feeling of dread that washes over him. He really doesn't wanna think about going into that machine.

Like, ever.

His distress doesn't go unnoticed by Derek, who once again takes his hand and starts rubbing soothing circles in his skin as the doctor continues.

"So, we'll get an IV inserted for the contrast, start you on some fluids to keep you hydrated, and give you a dose of Toradol for the pain."

Stiles likes that idea. The more pain-lessening mojo he has on board, the better as far as he's concerned.

"When was the last time you had anything to eat?"

"Um, dinner?" He thinks about it, and realizes it was actually the S'mores they'd made. "I mean dessert. Around eight last night, I guess."

"Anything to drink?"

"Yeah. Water, when I woke up coughing. Uh, around..." he has to stop and clear his throat, his voice grating and painful.

Derek squeezes his hand and finishes for him. "That was a little before two this morning, right before we came up here."

"Okay. Well, at least for now, I'd like to keep you NPO—nothing by mouth—just in case we need to take you up to the OR."

"Is that a possibility?" Derek asks, his voice strained, his hand tightening around Stiles'. "He might need surgery?"

Stiles doesn't have to have werewolf senses to feel the panic and worry radiating off his boyfriend at the prospect. He's scared too, and he certainly doesn't wanna have to go under the knife for any reason, but he's more concerned with reassuring Derek at the moment.

An on edge werewolf is not a good thing.

"Der, it's cool," he croaks, grimacing a little at the sound of his own voice. He shakes it off, quirking his lips and turning his hand over in the alpha's grip until they're palm to palm, threading their fingers together, "I'm sure Dr. Owens here knows what he's doing. That's why he gets paid the big bucks after all, right doc?"

Dr. Owens gives him a knowing grin, but moves on quickly, addressing Derek's obvious concern. "It is a possibility, but we'll know more after the CT. I may get a laryngoscopy to better visualize the inside of your throat," he directs this part to Stiles, "but I want to see what the scans show us first. You don't appear to be in any immediate distress, so I'm hopeful that we can manage this issue non-surgically."

"Sounds like a solid plan, doc."

No cutting open of the Stiles sounds like a great plan. He's all for that plan.

The doctor leaves then, but Derek remains by his side, hovering, anxiety emanating off him in thunderous waves.

Stiles just tries to relax through it, lying back against the pillows and closing his eyes until nurse Jenny returns to start his IV. The needle she pulls out of that TARDIS-like drawer under his bed is entirely too big as far as he's concerned; not too long, really, but much larger around than he'd like if he'd gotten to choose it himself. The sharp pinch-sting he feels as the needle punctures his skin, however, does give him something new and exciting to concentrate on instead of the slight pain in his upper chest and throat.

At least for a few moments.

He's trying to look on the bright side.

Once the IV is in place, Jenny tapes it all down to within an inch of its life and connects it to a bag of clear fluid that's hanging high on a metal pole next to him. Then she pushes the pain medicine the doctor ordered for him through the line and his head goes a little fuzzy for a few minutes.

It's great.

And lovely.

And all very quick and efficient, too.

Everything had ended up being pretty quick and efficient, actually.

About five minutes later an orderly had come in with a wheelchair to take him for his CT scan.

Derek had ended up having to stay behind, though; which he was obviously not happy about if the angry growl he'd let loose was any indication. Unsurprisingly, the wolf had picked up on Stiles' uneasiness about the test from the get-go, from the moment Dr. Owens had mentioned it. He'd known exactly why Stiles was on edge—enclosed spaces aren't really his thing anymore, especially that particular enclosed space—and he'd wanted to stay by his side in case he needed anything, or in case something happened to him.

In case he freaked the fuck out, or his condition took a turn for the worse.

Protectivewolf.

But Derek had been forced to stay behind, and he'd glared death daggers at the orderly as the dude wheeled Stiles out the door and down the hallway.

Red-tinged death daggers.

.

_The orderly disconnected him from the oxygen and blood pressure cuff, and grabbed his IV bag as Stiles hobbled out of bed, making his way over to the wheelchair. As he was sitting down Derek moved to follow, but the guy stopped him in his tracks. _

_A decision both brave and stupid. _

"_Sorry sir, but no one's allowed back in radiology with him. He should only be gone about ten minutes, though, so you can wait for him here in the room." _

_Derek glowered at that, and Stiles swore he saw a flash of ruby red in his eyes as he stared the dude down. _

_Hastily, he put up a hand, trying to placate his overprotective wolf. "Der, babe, it's okay. I'll be okay."_

"_Are you sure? Because I can go and just wait in the hall, be there if something happens. If you need me for anything."_

"_I always need you," he countered, smiling, "Always. But I'm good. Really. It'll be fine. I'll be back before you know it." _

.

Now, as he's lying on the hard surface of the scanner, he's trying his best to believe his own words.

He's good.

It'll be fine.

He's gonna be okay.

They inject something into his IV that instantly warms his veins, and then there's a blanket covering him and he's left alone in the room. He tries his hardest not to think about the last time he was in this very same machine.

Because that way lies madness...and horror, and blood, and death.

All the bad things.

No, this time is different. Way different. So totally different that it's on a whole other planet—or galaxy, even.

A different _universe._

He's not here because he thinks he's going insane, or because he may be developing what his mother had, or because he's been possessed by a goddamn fox demon hell bent on death and destruction to get its rocks off.

He knows he's not going to lose control of his faculties.

He knows he's not going to get trapped inside his mind.

He knows he's not going to end up murdering tons of innocent people.

He _knows._

He does.

He's in control.

It's all gonna be fine.

He closes his eyes and taps his fingers against his thigh, counting them, one by one, making sure they're all there, right where they're supposed to be.

Reassuring himself, just in case.

Then he lets his mind wander.

He thinks of Derek—about how much he loves him, and how funny he is when no one else is around to witness the wonder of it, and how patient he is when Stiles' ADHD starts acting up.

He thinks about sex—because come on, of course he does; he's an eighteen year old guy, he can't help it—and how lucky he feels that Derek chose him of all people to do that sort of thing with.

_So_ lucky.

He thinks about all the other things he wants to do with Derek, of the sexy and the non-sexy variety, and that leads him to thinking about other things—the future, and collage, and maybe even marriage someday.

Kids, jobs, where they'll live.

If they'll get a dog or a cat.

Before he knows it the test is over and he's being pulled out of the machine and taken back to his room in the ER.

He didn't freak out once.

.

* * *

.

While waiting for the CT results, Stiles distracts himself from the nagging scratch in his throat with a heated game of Angry Birds. Derek is still by his side, sitting in the the chair next to the bed with his own phone out, reading articles about other sexual mishaps that have landed people in the ER.

Stiles doesn't really feel so bad about how he got here anymore.

But when he'd first returned to the room, Derek hadn't been in quite as good a mood as his is now.

The opposite, really.

The alpha had been sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, jaw tight, looking lost and pissed as all hell—at himself, no doubt, and maybe the orderly.

But mostly himself, probably.

The martyrwolf.

After Stiles had been hooked back up to the oxygen and tucked safely in bed, they'd finished the conversation they'd started before Dr. Owens had interrupted them, and they'd come to the mutual conclusion that what had happened the night before was no one's fault.

Which, _duh._

It was just an accident. A bit of Stiles not knowing his own limitations and being a little too enthusiastic—wanting to do everything all at once, wanting to be the best, wanting to have his cake and eat it too. And also, a bit of Derek being so completely, devastatingly smitten and overwhelmed by Stiles' absolute sexiness that he just couldn't control himself.

Understandable, when you think about it. Stiles is a sexy beast, after all.

They'll pace themselves better in the future, though.

They're not in a rush.

They have time.

.

* * *

.

Stiles takes in a breath the wrong way—if that's even a freaking thing, holy god—and is hit with another wretched bout of coughing and throat spasms. It _aches_, and he maybe cries a little, because this shit hurts and he's tired of it.

So damn tired.

But then Derek's hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, gently soothing away the pain, and everything gets a little less awful and little more tolerable.

"Thanks, nursewolf," he whispers, grateful for the reprieve as he leans back against the pillows.

Derek ignores the name, but Stiles knows he secretly enjoys all the wacky variations he comes up with. It keeps things interesting, makes life exciting and all that jazz.

Once he's calmed down he lets Derek gently wipe his mouth off, and they both let out a sigh of relief when the tissue comes away clean. No signs of blood. "Hey...would you looky there," he huffs, "I'm gettin' better already."

"Yeah," Derek hums in quiet agreement, leaning down to kiss Stiles' forehead. His lips are warm and dry, and he lingers there, reverent, tenderly stroking the hair at the nape of Stiles' neck as he breathes in his scent, long and deep. It's nice. Really nice. Stiles wants him to stay there forever and ever. "Just, keep it up for me," he softly adds, before pulling away and sitting back down in the chair.

Stiles smiles.

Supersweetwolf.

.


	5. It's all gonna be okay

_Just a heads up, Stiles has a little panic/anxiety attack in this chapter in response to a medical procedure. _

* * *

**Chapter Five**

**It's all gonna be okay**

.

Dr. Owens comes into his room a little while later, and Stiles opens his eyes at the sound of heavy footsteps hitting the linoleum.

He'd fallen asleep, apparently.

And also, surprisingly.

When you think about it, it's rather startling just how much sleep a person _can't _seem to get in a hospital setting—what with all the interruptions, the people coming in and out, the poking and the prodding, the tests, the overhead pages.

Crying babies.

Crying adults.

Derek...not crying, exactly, but worrying loud enough to be distracting nonetheless.

He looks up at the clock on the wall and sighs at what it tells him.

It's 3:56am.

It feels like it's a whole lot later than that, though.

So much later.

It kind of feels like they've been in this room for hours, maybe even days, just stuck in a holding pattern while they wait to find out what Stiles' fate will be.

Is he gonna die?

Or is he going to need some sort of surgery?

Will he ever be able to give a decent blowjob again?

Those are all important questions that he's had plenty of time to think about, and they need answering.

Derek's still sitting in the chair next to him, where he's been the entire time, a constant and reassuring presence by Stiles' side despite everything else going on; and he puts his phone back in his pocket as the doctor approaches.

"How are we doing in here, Mr. Stilinski?" the man softly asks, breaking the silence as he stands at the foot of the bed.

"Tired, doc."

Really, really tired.

"Well, that's quite understandable, especially down here in the pit; but hopefully you'll be able to get some much needed rest soon enough," Dr. Owens replies, a sympathetic look in his clinically assessing eyes.

Stiles gives him a slight yet hopeful nod of agreement.

Rest sounds nice.

"So, I've had a chance to review your CT scan," he continues, "and the results are pretty unremarkable, which is a good thing. There doesn't appear to be any fractures of the cartilage in your neck, and your trachea is intact—meaning, as far as I can tell, your airway isn't compromised; but I would still like to get a laryngoscopy to look for any soft tissue damage the CT may have missed. Anything that could have caused the bleeding and discomfort that brought you in tonight, or that could potentially lead to further, heavier bouts of bleeding. Considering the extremely vascular nature of the area involved, that's what I'm the most concerned with right now—the possibility of hemorrhage."

Derek tenses up at that, and Stiles shoots him a tiny smile to try to ease at least some of his obvious concern.

"Have you coughed up any more blood recently?"

"No, he hasn't," Derek quickly answers for him, clearing his own throat. His voice sounds groggy, rough, and he looks half asleep as he stands and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. A true zombiewolf in the making. "Not in the last hour or so, anyway. He's had a few small coughing fits, but there's been no blood with them. He's been dozing on and off for a little while now."

"Excellent." The doctor pulls a small bottle from the pocket of his lab coat and moves closer. It's got a little tip on the end, about an inch or so long, and it reminds Stiles of the nasal spray his dad has stashed in the medicine cabinet at home. The spray he hates. He eyes it suspiciously as the man continues. "We'll be able to do the laryngoscopy right here in the room, so I'm going to go ahead and spray some of this up both your nostrils. It's just a local anesthetic, but it'll help numb your nasal passages and throat so you won't feel the scope when it's inserted."

He swallows, a bit nervous for what's to come, but nods his agreement; and the doctor gingerly pulls the cannula away from his nose, replacing it with the tip of the bottle. A quick squirt in each nostril later, and the cannula is back in place, oxygen flowing freely once more.

The medicinal scent hits him like a truck, rapid and all at once, and it's almost overwhelming as it sits heavy in his nose. It makes him want to sneeze, makes his eyes water. He can taste the sharp bitterness of the chemicals on his tongue as he blinks to clear his vision.

It's all together very not pleasant.

"Alright. I'll be back in about ten minutes, after that's had some time to take effect, and then we'll move ahead with the procedure."

"Thank you, doctor," Derek murmurs as the man leaves.

Stiles has to admit, unpleasant smell and taste, and pretty much everything else aside, he's already starting to not feel his throat, which is fucking _amazing_. Seriously. He could totally get used to it, the whole absence of pain thing.

The blissful numbness.

All too soon, though, and much to Stiles' dismay, Dr. Owens returns; and his nurse is with him this time, carrying a long, thin black device in her hands. It looks sort of like a rubber tube, or a cable, flexible, with one end thicker than the other.

The doctor pulls up a stool, sits down all business-like, and pushes a button on the side rail of Stiles' bed that has his head lifting steadily until he finds himself sitting in a pretty upright position as well, the two of them facing one another.

He watches anxiously as the other man dons a pair of blue gloves, takes the instrument from Jenny, and begins fiddling with it. A few seconds later light is shining brightly from the tip and the nurse is squirting a glob of clear fluid—lube, Stiles' mind supplies, because he's quite familiar with the consistency, thank you very much—over the majority of the slender part of the scope.

Dr. Owens looks back at him, meeting his eyes.

"Now," he begins, "I'm going to insert this end of the scope up your nostril, and then slowly advance it down into your throat." He holds the illuminated portion up for Stiles to see, and let's him get a nice, good look at it all. "There's a small camera on the tip, right here," he points it out, "that will allow me to better visualize the area of concern. It'll make it a lot easier to spot any abnormalities."

The doctor goes on to calmly and thoroughly explain the steps he's going to take during the course of the exam, but Stiles doesn't hear most of what the guy says because he doesn't really feel calm at all.

About any of it.

The opposite, actually.

He's so not calm it's laughable.

He can sense his heart starting to race a little at the idea of that long ass thing being pushed so far up his nose that it ends up somewhere down in his throat, because that's just not natural.

It can't be.

His anxiety and nervousness are mixing with his overall exhaustion, creating a maelstrom in his chest; and he knows it's all just making everything so much worse for him, but he can't help it. He feels frayed at the edges, like he's about to spiral completely out of control.

That's when Derek comes closer, no doubt sensing Stiles' mounting distress, and hovers nearby, on high alert, at the ready in case he's needed.

"You shouldn't really feel anything," Dr. Owens quickly adds, probably picking up on his patient's apprehension as well, "except, possibly, a bit of tugging or pressure. There should be no discomfort, though, no pain at all; and this'll only take a minute or so. It'll be fast, in and out, easy peasy."

Stiles would most definitely have some kind of sarcastic quip or sexual innuendo to reply with if he was on top of his game—if he wasn't trying so hard not to completely freak out. As it is, though, he doesn't have the energy; he's just barely holding it together. His heart is pounding in his chest and he's starting to hyperventilate again, his arm flying out wildly, reaching somewhere in Derek's general vicinity, desperately seeking, searching for a lifeline to keep him from totally losing his shit; and the wolf is instantly there, right where Stiles needs him to be, taking his hand and holding on tight.

Anchoring him, grounding him, keeping the panic at bay.

"Hey, I'm here. I'm right here," Derek murmurs, breath warm on his ear, voice calm and low and soothing; and Stiles lets out a broken little whimper at the sound of his alpha. "Shhh, you're alright. You're alright and you've got this. You're strong. So, so strong, Sti, and you can do this. Okay? You can _do_ this. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah. Yeah, um, o-okay. Okay. Yeah, I can do this. But just, you know, will you stay here?" he asks, meeting glittering sea foam eyes, and he doesn't even care that he sounds so small and scared and pathetic. Not right now, not right here. He needs this, needs Derek, needs to know he's not alone. "Please, Der, just don't leave. Don't leave me."

"Never. I'm not going anywhere, baby, I promise. I'm right here with you. I've got you. I've _always_ got you, Stiles. So just focus on me. Hold onto me. Listen to my voice. It's all gonna be okay."

He gives a jerky nod, then closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath, leaning back as far as he can and tilting his chin up when the doctor instructs him to do so.

This is pure mind over matter, he knows.

He's strong.

He can handle this.

He's got this.

He takes one more breath, then drowns out everything that's going on around him and focuses solely on Derek—on the man's warm grip holding steady, on his soft voice murmuring gentle assurances, on his familiar smell surrounding him, protecting him.

He gets lost in it all, and the procedure is over and done before he even knows what happened.

Doc Owens was right, he didn't feel a thing.

Stiles _loves_ the numbing medicine.

And he loves Derek, too.

.

* * *

.

After everything is cleaned up and the doctor has thoroughly washed his hands at the sink in the corner, he sits back down and starts explaining what he found to the both of them.

"Well, as I suspected, it does look like you've got a fairly good amount of swelling down there, and I also saw several lacerations along the posterior wall of your larynx—close to the vocal cords—which could definitely account for some of the pain, shortness of breath and bloody mucous you've been experiencing. You're O2 sats are staying in the mid nineties now, though, which I'm quite pleased with; and you don't appear to be in any major distress, so I feel pretty confident that this will all resolve on its own with time."

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief at the good news, chancing a glance towards Derek and noting that the wolf looks pleased with the information as well.

"However," he goes on, "I _am _going to keep you here for at least the next twenty-four hours for observation, as a precaution."

Stiles grimaces then, suddenly a little less pleased with the turn of events. He'd much rather go home, to his own bed. Or to Derek's bed. That'd be even better, actually. Derek's bed is so much better than all the other beds.

"In the unlikely event that something _does _go wrong, this is exactly where you're gonna wanna be. It's the best and most equipped place to deal with any and all complications that could arise."

When Dr. Owens pauses, pinning him with a stern gaze, Stiles reluctantly nods his understanding. He gets it, he does. Better safe than sorry and all that. But just because he understands the reasoning behind something doesn't mean he has to like it.

"So, we'll get you moved up to a room, and keep you on humidified room air for now. I don't feel that the extra oxygen is really necessary at this point, but the humidified air should help ease the irritation in your throat. I also want you to keep the head of your bed elevated by thirty degrees, so no lying flat on your back; and I'm going to start you on something to decrease the acid production in your stomach. Again, acid equals irritation, so we want to minimize that as much as possible. In addition, I'm going to start you on a course of IV antibiotics prophylactically, which you'll continue to take by mouth after you go home. They'll help prevent any infections from developing in the lacerations as they continue to heal. Now," he stops there, meeting Stiles' gaze, then Derek's, "do either of you have any questions for me?"

He's feeling quite a bit overwhelmed, actually, so he looks to Derek for guidance as his brain attempts to take in and make sense of the huge information dump it's just received.

"So, he doesn't have to have surgery?"

Dr. Owens turns to Derek as well and gives him a reassuring smile. "No, I don't think so," he answers, then looks back to Stiles, "But that's precisely why I'm keeping you here for a little while. Just to be safe. Any other questions or concerns?"

"I guess not." He shrugs a shoulder and leans back against the pillows. "I'll be able to go home tomorrow, then?"

"Let's reevaluate your condition tomorrow morning. If you're still stable and the bleeding has stopped we'll see what we can do about getting you home. Until then, though, I also want you to try to rest your voice as much as possible."

He furrows his brow, his nose crinkling up in distaste at the very idea of that; and Derek lets out a snort of laughter—which he quickly quells when he sees the death glare Stiles instantly shoots his way.

This does not bode well for his immediate future.

No it does not.

He's _so _not a silent person.

"Doc, I'm gonna have to level with you here, I don't know if I'm actually _capable _of not talking. It's this thing that I tend do, like, a lot. A whole lot. A lot, a lot."

"The quieter you are, Mr. Stilinski, the sooner you'll heal," he shoots back without missing a single beat, like he was expecting an argument from him or something, "And the sooner you heal, the faster you'll be able to get outta here."

Damn it.

"Well then, I suppose when you put it that way..."

Stiles snaps his mouth shut, makes a big, huge show of zipping his lips and locking them up tight, then throws away the key.

Throws it far away.

Far, far away.

Because he's gonna need all the help he can get, honestly.

Derek snorts again, probably in response to the ridiculous display; but he hastily covers his mouth to muffle the startled sound. He's still grinning, though, obviously quite amused with the current situation and doing a piss poor job of hiding it.

So Stiles flips him off, nice and quiet like.

.

* * *

_Next up, Papa Stilinski!_


	6. Please just stop talking

**Chapter Six**

**Please just stop talking**

.

He has to call his dad.

He's not supposed to talk, as per his doctor's sadistic order, but he's gonna be here for at least the next twenty-four hours, and his father will absolutely flip his shit if Stiles doesn't tell him he's in the fucking hospital.

So that's what he does.

He calls the sheriff's cell phone after he's settled into his new room on the third floor—a nice, private room with a fold out couch for Derek and a lovely view of the construction in the parking lot—and waits for the man to pick up.

The garbled _"Hello?"_ he's greeted with three and a half rings in sounds muffled and half asleep at best, which is totally understandable considering the time.

It's 4:45am.

Jesus.

He really needs to get some sleep.

He tells his dad where he is and what room number he's in, but that's about as far as he gets before the voice on the other end of the line cuts him off, going from sleepy and confused to awake and serious in the blink of an eye; like a switch has been flipped.

"_You're where? The hospital?"_

Stiles can hear the mattress squeaking as his dad gets out of bed, the telltale rustle of clothes being haphazardly thrown on in the dark, the frantic pounding of boot-clad feet running down the stairs, the front door opening and then slamming shut.

"Dad, would you take it easy? You need to calm down before you get behind the wheel," he rasps, the numbness in his throat sadly starting to wear off, "Please. And Yes, I'm in the hospital, but I promise I'm okay, and I promise that I'll still _be_ okay when you get here...as long as you don't go getting yourself in a wreck on the way over, anyway. You have to be in one piece when I see you or all bets are off."

"_Stiles, what happened?"_

His dad sounds so scared in that moment, and it shocks him a little to hear the quiver in the man's voice; but Stiles can't, absolutely _cannot_ tell him this sort of sensitive information over the phone.

He just _can't._

But he can't lie to him either, not anymore, so he just says, "I'll tell you when you get here. _Drive safe._ I love you," and then quickly hangs up before he starts to cry or something.

He hates what he's doing, what he's putting his dad through.

He absolutely despises making his father worry about him like this, and he feels like such a terrible son because his dad really doesn't need the added stress on top of everything else he's got on his plate. Raising a kid with ADHD all by himself, working long-ass hours at the station, and dealing with crazy supernatural werewolf bullshit on an almost daily basis is bad enough—the man's heart can't take anymore crap.

But Stiles just keeps piling it on anyway.

He scrubs a hand over his face and sniffs a few times, trying to force back the hot wave of tears that's suddenly burning behind his eyes, prickling there, threatening to overflow. There's a lump in his throat that he's sure has nothing at all to do with his injuries, and he feels like he's about to lose control. He doesn't need to break down right now, though; he really doesn't. He's had enough emotional outbursts over the previous four hours to last him a good month or two, at the least.

He needs to pull himself together.

Derek quietly sits down on the edge of the bed next to him and takes the phone away, fingers coming up to gently stroke through his hair and scratch at his scalp; and Stiles closes his eyes, lets out a tremulous sigh as he leans into the tender touch, breathes in his wolf's calming, woodsy scent.

He listens as the alpha begins to speak, low and steady, careful, saying exactly what he knows Stiles needs to hear most in all the world.

Because he's amazing like that.

"Your father's gonna be just fine, Sti, so stop worrying."

"That's so much easier said than done," he mumbles, nuzzling farther into Derek's palm, strong and warm against his cheek.

"Yeah, I know it is, but I also know you can do it. Because this is how things are gonna go, okay? You listening to me?" He pauses, waits for Stiles to meet his eyes; and Stiles does, nodding for him to continue. "You're dad's gonna come up here in a few minutes, he's gonna find out what happened, he's gonna see with his own two eyes that you're really okay, and then he's gonna be okay too. He may or may not try to shoot me at some point..." his lips curve up in a faint smile, and Stiles can't help but mirror the action, his whole body relaxing in little increments. "But either way, everything's gonna work out just fine, baby, I promise. You'll see."

"And if he _does_ shoot you?" he teases, full on grinning now. He's starting to feel a bit lighter, more in control, more himself again.

"Then it'd be worth it," is Derek's immediate reply, "Even if the bullet's laced with wolfsbane, it would still be worth it just to be with you. It's always worth it."

And now that just makes Stiles wanna cry for a whole new slew of reasons.

Happy, sappy, mushy reasons.

He feels his cheeks heat up; and he huffs, sniffs, tries very hard to stop himself from swooning or doing something equally as silly in response to all the sweet being thrown his way.

"Besides," Derek goes on, smirking as he clears his throat, eyes sparkling, "Your dad _knows_ you, Stiles. After eighteen years, I'm pretty sure he knows to expect the unexpected, especially when it comes to you. And this...well, this is definitely unexpected."

That gets an actual, honest-to-god laugh out of him, and he bats playfully at Derek's chest a couple times before his hand is gently taken up in the man's own, a reverent kiss placed against his knuckles a second later. It makes his heart flutter and his stomach do a little swoopy thing—that sweet, familiar warmth washing over him once more.

He really is so far gone on this man, it's ridiculous. Absolutely, absurdly ridiculous.

He can't find it in himself to care, though.

Not even a little bit.

"You're not wrong there," he sighs, "I keep all of you on your toes. You're welcome."

They both chuckle at that, and then a comfortable silence washes over the room as they stare into each other's eyes like two lovesick fools for a while.

"And, um, thanks," he softly adds, "For, you know, pretty much everything."

Derek just nods and smiles, warm and sure, then kisses his hand again, holds it to his chest.

Loveywolf.

.

* * *

.

The sheriff makes it to the hospital in record time. Stiles figures he must have had lights and sirens blaring the whole way to avoid all those pesky traffic laws because before he knows it, the man in question is standing right in front of his hospital bed, looking nervous, ashen and fucking terrified.

"Hey, Dad," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, his voice still straining with the use. He sounds awful to his own ears, but he tries his best to give a reassuring smile in an attempt to offset it at least a little bit. Play it down and all. Deflect. "See? I'm okay. In one piece and everything. Just like you. Thanks for that, by the way."

His father takes a long moment to study him, careful eyes trailing up and down his body, scrutinizing every last detail about him and where he's currently located, tucked away in a hospital bed. His gaze lingers a few seconds longer than necessary on the IV in Stiles' arm and the nasal cannula in his nose; and when he finally speaks, it's tight, strained, anxious. "Stiles...kid, tell me what the hell happened."

Stiles suddenly rethinks that whole lying thing, but quickly pushes the urge aside. They don't do that anymore. So instead, he looks over to Derek, standing by his side like a sentry, at the ready in case he needs him for anything. Anything at all. It's a comfort, and it helps him shore up the courage he so desperately needs.

He can do this.

He steels himself and looks back to his father.

"Uh, well, you know how I'm eighteen now and in a very loving and committed relationship? A relationship that _you yourself _gave us the okay to start, by the way?"

His dad's already looking a little less worried about the overall situation and a little more wary; but he quietly nods for Stiles to continue nonetheless.

"Well, Derek and I, see, we kinda took that loving relationship to a new level. Um, last night. We took it there last night, because you gave us your permission. To do that sort of thing. The sex thing. With each other."

Now his dad just looks downright horrified, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"Oh hell, that kinda came out wrong, didn't it?"

The sheriff says nothing in reply, just schools his expression, folds his arms across his chest and quirks a judgmental brow at him. It's a silent demand for immediate clarification and elaboration if Stiles has ever seen one.

"Okay, okay! Jeez. That really did come out _so_ wrong, though..." he lets out a nervous burst of laughter, "So very, very wrong. What I meant was, you gave us your permission in the sense of having us wait until I was legal. To, um, you know, to do anything like that. That's the kind of permission I was referring to. That's totally what I meant..."

And now Derek's over there sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, like he can't even believe any of these words are actually coming out of Stiles' mouth. Like it's unfathomable or something; which really, in all fairness, he should probably know better than to think by now. I mean, come on Derek, get with the program.

God, this is so not going as well as it could be.

"So anyway," he continues, attempting to focus purely on the task at hand, trying to just get through it as mentally unscathed as possible while driving the conversation train clear off the damn tracks. Because why stop now, right? Right. "I may have done something, with Derek—I mean, of course it was with Derek. Who the hell else would it be with? Duh. Or, well, I guess more specifically, I did something with a certain part of Derek's _anatomy, _and I'll have you know, it was so freakin' big that I couldn't—"

"Oh my god—_stop! _Please. Please just stop talking." The sheriff's hands fly up in front of his face and cover it like a shield, like they can somehow protect him from the horrifying onslaught of Stiles' insane word vomit. Good luck with that. "I really don't need to hear it. Any of it." His hands slowly, timidly lower back down to his sides as he takes in a deep breath, but now he's wearing a grimace not unlike the sort of look he gets whenever Stiles makes him eat tofu. "I don't wanna hear any details about whatever it is the two of you do together...in private. None of it. Ever. Just," he sighs, a tinge of worry seeping back into his voice when he continues, "Kid...the only thing I really need to know is if you're okay. Now."

All three of them look between each other, silent and kind of shell shocked.

"So," his dad prompts after too much awkward silence has passed, "are you? Okay now?"

"Yeah." Stiles nods a little too enthusiastically, glancing at Derek, then back to his father. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Definitely. I've just got some, um, lacerations? And some swelling. In my throat. But it should all be totally fine! Really! The doctor just said I need a little time to heal, and he wants to keep me in the hospital under observation to be safe, but I'll be good as new before you know it, so don't you worry. And don't go getting any crazy ideas about fast food or anything, either. This is not a vacation from your diet."

Derek finally chooses that moment to start shushing him; and honestly, Stiles is surprised it took him that long.

"Doctor Owens said you need vocal rest, and you've been talking non-stop like an idiot. So it's time to shut up now."

His dad scoffs and gives them each an incredulous look. It's a look that Stiles has seen many times and is very familiar with; a look that conveys exactly how much the man _doesn't _think his son will be able to stay quiet.

Stiles resents it immediately, but he doesn't say a word.

Nope. Not a single fucking word.

What he does do, however, is stick his tongue out at the both of them.

Just like the mature adult he so obviously is.

.

* * *

.

Derek calls the rest of the pack at a much more reasonable hour.

He lets them know where they are, that Stiles is going to be fine, and that they'll be up for having visitors later on in the day. Any further questions they have will just have to wait until he and Derek figure out what the heck they're actually gonna tell everyone.

The only thing Stiles knows for sure about the matter is that it's not gonna be the truth.

_Hell_ to the _no._

He's not about to put anyone else through that level of awkward.

Besides, they deserve a few secrets.

.

* * *

.

He's given another dose of Toradol for the pain, and it's pretty damn great. The medication takes the edge off of his discomfort and helps him relax, which allows him to spend a good portion of the morning hours napping on and off, only waking up for vital sign checks and to try to eat a little of the soft diet Dr. Owens has so generously ordered him for breakfast.

While he'd been sleeping, his dad had gone home to change into his uniform; but the man returns before he has to go into work, bringing some food back for himself and Derek as well since the wolf flat out refuses to leave Stiles' side for anything other than to go to the bathroom.

And that's how he finds himself staring longingly at the steaming pile of bacon, hash browns, and ham and cheese omelet filling up the Styrofoam take out container perched on Derek's lap while he tries to force down his own tasteless, mushy hospital oatmeal.

It's so not fair.

And definitely not cool, either. Especially when he sees that his dad has apparently deemed it necessary and acceptable to procure the exact same artery-clogging meal for himself.

Stiles glares death daggers of his own variety in response to the troubling news. They may not be red-tinged, or alpha-infused, or anything else equally as scary and powerful, but they still manage to get his point across.

He's not happy.

So very _not happy._

"Don't go getting too used to that kind of eating, mister," he grouses, pointing a disapproving finger at his father, "Because when I get outta here it's back to egg whites, veggies and turkey burgers for you. I'm not even kidding. And you'll be running laps around the neighborhood to make up for all that grease you're shoveling in your face—"

"Shhh," Derek puts a finger over his mouth to silence him, "Stay. Quiet."

Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

He knows he needs to be quiet so his stupid larynx has time to stupid heal, but it's freaking hard, okay? And annoying, and frustrating, and _cruel._ It feels like every single time he so much as whispers a damn syllable Derek's all up in his business, giving him his trademark scowl and shushing him.

Always with the shushing.

It kind of makes him wanna scream, except he knows that doing so would hurt like a bitch at the moment.

And inevitably lead to even more shushing.

"Oh, speaking of..." his dad pops a piece of crispy bacon in his mouth and pulls a whiteboard out of his bag, along with a dry erase marker, "I borrowed this from the station for you to use while you're stuck in here. So you can communicate without having to talk."

The man hands both items over with a grin, and Stiles grudgingly takes them, then instantly draws a little frowny face right in the center of the board.

Derek just leans in and kisses his cheek before going back to eating his delicious, cheesy omelet and ketchup slathered hash browns.

His dad does the same.

Stiles lets out a resigned sigh, stares at his oatmeal, and pouts.

.

* * *

_If you're enjoying this, please let me know! Also, there's one more chapter to come._


	7. Curly fries aren't on the soft diet

_And here it is, folks, the final chapter! This story was initially supposed to be a one shot/drabble type situation, but it ended up being my second longest fic to date, because of reasons. Mainly Stiles-shaped reasons. It's all Stiles' fault, really. But anyway, thank you guys so much for reading. It's all been very appreciated, and I hope you've had as much fun reading this story as I did writing it._

_XoxO_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Curly fries aren't on the soft diet, Stiles**

.

The sheriff leaves to go to work soon after they all finish their breakfast, and Stiles and Derek are left alone to entertain themselves for several hours.

They watch some TV to pass the time. _Family Feud _is on, followed by a couple episodes of _The Price is Right,_ and then a _Scrubs_ marathon starts up—which Stiles finds hilariously appropriate, considering where they are at the present moment.

They play on their phones a bit when the roar of the television starts to become too tiresome, and Stiles finally beats the _Candy Crush_ level he's been stuck on for fucking weeks. Shortly after enthusiastically celebrating that hard-won victory, though, Derek decimates him in a game of _Words with Friends;_ then they each take turns drawing doodles all over his whiteboard. It all starts off innocent enough—cute little sketches of wolves and foxes frolicking around in the preserve—but at some point things begin to devolve and the pictures take a turn, spiraling down into Not Safe For Work territory.

Way down into it.

The X-rated material is mainly Stiles' fault, he'll readily admit, but Derek does nothing at all to deter him—the enablerwolf.

If only his dad could see them now...the man would be so proud.

Every time Stiles needs to go to the bathroom, Derek helps him wrangle all the various things he's hooked up to so he doesn't trip over anything and brain himself; and whenever he has a coughing fit he gets a hefty dose of werewolf mojo to ease the pain away, because his boyfriend is the best.

The absolute best.

They make another game out of trying to guess what sorts of culinary delights will be brought up to him for lunch, and then they finally come up with a plausible explanation to tell the pack for why he's actually in the hospital.

It's all very exciting stuff.

Thrilling, even.

The story they decide to go with is that Stiles scarfed down way too many Doritos all at once, just shoving them in his mouth all willy-nilly style—which, let's be honest, believable—and scratched the ever-loving fuck out of his throat; so much so that he'd started coughing up blood in the middle of the night. Derek, being the worrywolf he is, had woken up, seen all the blood, and promptly proceeded to freak out; then raced him straight to the ER—also believable, and totally, one-hundred percent true.

When lunch does arrive around noon, the nurses take pity on Derek and give him one of the extra trays so he doesn't have to leave the room to go hunting for sustenance.

Stiles receives a generous dollop of bland mashed potatoes, a matching portion of shredded chicken, a small bowl of cottage cheese, a glass of apple juice, and some strawberry jello for dessert—which just so happens to be Derek's favorite flavor.

It's delightful.

Derek seems to be much happier with his own complimentary meal of chicken strips, french fries and chocolate cake; and for hospital food, it doesn't look half bad.

It looks pretty damn good, actually.

Stiles tries to steal a fry and is immediately shot down by the most impressive bitch-face he thinks he's ever seen; and coming from Derek's broody mug, that's saying something.

He huffs, glares at the older man, and refuses to share any of his jello.

.

* * *

.

He starts getting visitors after lunch. His nurse—Suzie, now—comes in all smiles with a bounce in her step, and switches out his IV bag, then checks his vital signs for the umpteenth time.

Scott follows her in, Allison trailing close behind, and Stiles lights up when he sees them.

After the nurse has finished with her rounds Scott comes right up to him, all sad puppy dog eyes, and gives him the bestest best bro-hug in the history of best bro-hugs; then pulls back and examines him just like his father did earlier that morning, eyes searching for any sort of anomaly or injury. "Dude, what the hell happened to you?" he asks, concern slowly seeping into his features.

So Stiles tells them the fabricated events that led to his hospitalization, and he only feels slightly guilty about the whole lying to his best friend part.

Scott, true to form, looks acceptably distressed and horrified on his behalf.

Bless him.

Allison looks a little more dubious in her belief, but she goes with it nonetheless.

Bless her, too.

And when he asks his brother-from-another-mother if said mother is working, he's extremely pleased to hear that she's not. Apparently Melissa McCall has the next three days off and is visiting a friend in Redding.

Bless the scheduling gods.

It's a small mercy, and Stiles appreciates it to no end.

Lydia comes flouncing into his room a little while later, bearing gifts of completed homework assignments since they still have a few weeks left of school; and Stiles flails with joy at the glorious wonder that is his strawberry-haired goddess.

Derek only growls a little at his antics.

Jealouswolf.

Stiles could mention the fact that most of his nurses have been surreptitiously shooting heart-eyes in Derek's general direction every time they come in, and a particularly feisty aide has even been low key flirting with the man, but he keeps his mouth shut.

It's all innocent enough, and what Derek doesn't know won't hurt him.

Obliviouswolf.

Isaac, Boyd and Erica stop by a few hours later, and they sneak him in a nice, greasy bag of curly fries from the diner he loves; but his overprotective jerk of a boyfriend snatches them away before he can even get so much as a whiff of their warm, salty deliciousness.

"Curly fries aren't on the soft diet, Stiles," he says, right before he pops one of the super long, super curly ones right into his own mouth, chewing happily.

And loudly.

The traitor.

Stiles draws an angry hand flipping Derek off on his little board.

.

* * *

.

He ends up going over their cover story with each member of the pack as they arrive, Derek taking over whenever he feels like Stiles has talked too much—which means Derek ends up doing most of the talking; and if any of the other wolves catch the lie in their heartbeats they don't say anything about it.

Thank god.

He's pretty sure all their friends know exactly what he and Derek got up to the previous night—mainly because Stiles had been talking about it almost nonstop for the last several weeks in unbridled anticipation—but they don't bring it up.

They can all live in blissful denial as far as he's concerned.

He doesn't care.

He's totally okay with that.

.

* * *

.

Stiles does, in fact, get discharged the following day; but not until mid-afternoon, after Dr. Owens has made rounds and had a chance to examine him one last time.

And he's definitely ready to leave.

So, so ready.

He's feeling a lot better, actually. His throat doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did the day before, and he can breathe a lot easier, too. There's been no coughing up of any suspicious bodily fluids, blood or otherwise, and less coughing in general. He was even able to eat solid foods for breakfast _and _lunch without much difficulty or discomfort, a fact that he realizes he's maybe a little bit too excited about. It's just further proof that he's going stir crazy and really needs to get the heck outta dodge before he starts climbing the freakin' walls or some shit.

His dad's there to help him get ready to leave, but only because he took a late lunch. He has to go straight back to the station after Stiles is safely squared away at home—which is how Stiles managed to talk the man into letting him stay at Derek's loft instead of at his own house.

.

"_Dad, look, just hear me out, okay? I know you want me home, and I get it, I really do. You're worried about me and stuff. Which is a totally valid concern, but think about it for a sec," he paused there, trying to gauge the expression slowly creeping onto his father's face. _

_It was something akin to 'well, this oughta be good'._

_Stiles didn't let it deter him in the slightest._

"_You've gotta go back to work, right? But see, Derek doesn't _have_ a job, because he's, you know, independently wealthy or whatever...so if I stay with him he can give me all the attention I need."_

"_Isn't his 'attention' exactly what landed you in the hospital to begin with?"_

"_What? No! Dad, oh my god...not _that_ kind of attention! Jesus. Look, w__hat I meant was, like, he can stay with me at all times and, you know, _make sure I don't die or anything. _Holy hell..."_

"_Alright, alright," his dad chuckled and shook his head, relenting, "Fine, kid, you can go with Derek—but you'd better take it easy. I mean it. You need to rest and recover, so let him take care of you."_

"_Oh yeah, de__finitely," he readily agreed, nodding his head and trying his best not to snicker, "I promise, I'll let Derek take care of me so, so good."_

_The werewolf chose that exact moment to walk back into the room from his coffee run on the fourth floor, and a heavy, loaded silence descended. "Um," he looked between the two Stilinski men, "did I miss something, or...?"_

_Stiles did snicker then, because he just couldn't help it. _

_His dad simply rolled his eyes._

.

His newest nurse, Melody, comes into his room carrying a stack of papers and starts to go over all of his discharge orders with the three of them:

Don't do anything too strenuous for the next two weeks—Stiles bites his tongue, his mind wallowing in the gutter, where it lives most of the time, honestly.

Don't talk too much—Derek and his dad both huff in unison.

Drink plenty of fluids— that one's doable.

Continue taking the antibiotics until the bottle is empty—also doable, provided someone's there to help remind him.

Call his primary care doctor or come back to the ER if he gets a fever greater than 100.4, if he has any trouble breathing, or if he starts coughing up blood again—Derek's whole body tenses at that one, but Stiles gently pats his arm, drawing soothing little circles across his skin and playing with the hairs there until he feels the wolf start to relax.

When she's finally finished with her spiel, Stiles states his understanding of all the instructions, signs several pieces of paper, and then sends Derek down to pull the Camaro up to the front entrance.

The alpha is still wary to leave his side for very long, but he does as Stiles asks, albeit reluctantly.

Melody unhooks him from all the various devices he's been attached to, gives him one last dose of pain medication through his IV, then takes that out as well.

After that's all said and done she leaves him to change into some comfortable clothes his dad brought up for him—a pair of baggy sweat pants and a soft, old BHPD t-shirt—since when he'd arrived at the hospital two nights prior he'd only been wearing his boxers and a thin undershirt.

They push him down in a wheelchair, despite his protests that he can walk just fine on his own; and Derek hops out of the car when they exit the building, running around to open the passenger side door for him. He gives his dad a big hug and an "I love you", thanks the nurse for all her help, and plops down in the passenger seat of the Camaro, pulling his seat belt on while Derek says goodbye to the sheriff.

That exchange is probably awkward as hell, and Stiles really wishes he had werewolf hearing so he could eavesdrop on the conversation because his imagination is kinda going wild with all the embarrassing possibilities.

Derek climbs into the driver's seat a few moments later, his dad gives them both a farewell salute, and then they're finally on their way.

Halle-freakin-lujah.

.

* * *

.

The drive from the hospital is eerily reminiscent of the drive _to _the hospital for Stiles.

Derek glances toward him no less than twenty-seven times during the short journey, worry lines crinkling the skin between his eyebrows. He looks like he's on edge; like he's just waiting for something horrible to happen.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Waiting for his whole world to implode, destroying him and everyone he loves right along with it.

Stiles gets it, though. He does.

He understands that Derek is concerned—the guy's lost so much Stiles can't even begin to fathom it—and he even appreciates all that concern to an extent. It shows him just how much the other man truly cares about him; but he really is okay, and he wants Derek to believe that. He wants Derek to know that bad stuff doesn't always have to happen to him; that he can be happy and the world's not gonna end because of it.

"Babe, I'm okay," he murmurs, "They wouldn't have let me leave the hospital if they thought I was gonna keel over or anything. They'd have kept me there to cover their own asses, and you know it. So please, stop worrying and just relax."

Derek's jaw ticks and his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows, but he gives a curt nod of acceptance; and Stiles takes that as his cue to grab the hand resting on the gear shift, threading their fingers together, palm to palm. His thumb starts a gentle back and forth caress along the line of Derek's own, and he leans his head back against the seat, watching as his wolf continues to drive them home.

Derek deserves nice things, Stiles has decided, and he's so gonna give them to him.

All the nice things.

.

* * *

.

Derek mother hens him like a boss once they get back to the loft.

He gets him all set up in the bedroom, with warm blankets and fluffy pillows and a huge glass of ice water. He makes sure Stiles has his laptop, and his phone, and the remotes to the TV and the DVD player. The whiteboard his father gave him is placed on the nightstand beside the bed, just in case Stiles actually wants to use it at some point. Derek even sets the thermostat to the temperature he knows Stiles is most comfortable with, even though it happens to be several degrees warmer than what Derek himself prefers.

Then he just sort of hovers in the doorway, like a lost little puppy that's not sure what it's supposed to do next.

"Uh, you doin' okay over there?" Stiles asks, and Derek immediately crosses the room, sitting right on the edge of the bed next to him, like he was just waiting for an invitation to come closer.

Or an opportunity to let out all of his pent up emotions.

Or both.

Probably both.

"Not really, no," he says, shaking his head, "I don't think I'm okay at all. You scared me half to death, Stiles."

"I know. I know I did."

"That night...the night when you woke up coughing...when I saw all the _blood._...fuck..."

"I know, Alpha..."

"It was bad, Stiles, but it could have been so much worse. A lot worse..." Derek's eyes look watery, and it makes Stiles' heart ache to see him blinking back tears, looking so open and vulnerable, wounded, scared, "What if it had been something worse? What if I'd hurt you more? I don't know what I would have done if it had been worse, Sti. I...I don't think I could have survived that, I just—"

"Hey, it didn't, though," Stiles cuts in then, taking Derek's hand in his and meeting the man's worried gaze, "It didn't. _You_ didn't. You didn't hurt me, Derek, and it all worked out just fine. See? I'm okay. I'm _here._ I'm right here with you, and I'm _okay, _Der."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's just...god, I fucking _hated _seeing you like that. I can't stand it—can't stand seeing you get hurt. Can't stand not being able to do anything...not being able to fix it..."

"I know. I'm really, really sorry."

Derek just gives him another nod, staring at him, his brow furrowed in thought as the silence lingers.

After a minute or so, Stiles breaks the quiet bubble they've drifted into.

"Anything else bothering you, big guy?" The name pops out of his mouth unbidden, and he grins despite himself, biting his tongue; then promptly gives up the cause and repeats, because he just can't help himself. And also, because he desperately needs to lighten the mood a bit, "Heh..._big guy._ You sure lived up to _that_ nickname, didn't ya?"

Derek glares at him for several long seconds, but then his lips quirk up ever so slightly and he slumps, his rigid posture relaxing a bit. He shakes his head again—but it seems easier this time, lighter, a lot less angsty—and he lets out a long-suffering sigh, running his fingers through his unruly hair.

Adorablewolf.

Stiles wants so very badly to kiss him, so he does. He leans forward, slowly, carefully, meeting their lips in a soft press of warmth.

Chaste and sweet.

Tender and questioning.

It takes a few seconds, but Derek gets with the program soon enough, returning the kiss with a little more heat and fervor. He nips at Stiles' lower lip, and Stiles eagerly opens up to him, moaning as their tongues slip together seamlessly.

It feels like coming home.

He circles his arms around the wolf's neck, goes to straddle his lap, to rock into him; but strong hands put a stop to his endeavor, halting his movement and holding him in place.

"Der, babe, come on," he mumbles against scratchy, two-day old stubble, "I want you. Wanna show you exactly how _much _I want you, so lemme go..."

"Shhh."

"Again with the shushing? Seriously?"

Derek pulls away from him, and he starts to protest the loss, but before he can get a word out those big, wolfy hands are gently guiding him down to lay on his back. Derek crawls on top of him, straddling his thighs, and suddenly Stiles is a little more on board with whatever this is.

"I'm not saying we can't mess around, Sti," Derek starts, placing a pillow beneath Stiles' head, making sure he's comfortable, "but we're gonna take things a lot slower from now on."

Slow is good.

Stiles can totally do slow.

He realizes he kind of scared the shit out of Derek, so he can do whatever the other man needs him to do in order to feel better about everything.

So, slow it is.

"Okay," he agrees easily, "Totally. No problemo. We'll take it a bit easier from now on. Go slow. Whatever you want. Anything you want." He leans up and kisses Derek again, a quick little peck. "I love you, and I'm really sorry I scared you..." he stops, grins, then adds, voice all sing-song and lovey-dovey, "my big, sweet softywolf."

Derek rolls his eyes at him, but smiles in return. "I love you too, god help me...and yeah, we _are_ gonna take it a lot easier from now on. No more trying to deep throat my 'humongous monster cock', as you put it. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, sure—I mean, wait...what? No! Oh, come on! You can't be serious! Don't take something that glorious way from me, Derek...please," he protests, voice going a bit hoarse again with the effort, "You don't actually want that, babe. Really, you don't. I _know _you don't want that because you _loved _having my mouth all over your dick. And I don't want that either, because _I _loved having my mouth all over your dick. We both love my mouth on your dick, okay? So no one wants anything to do with that nonsense talk. It'd be a sad, sad state of affairs all around—"

Derek kisses him quiet, all open mouthed and dirty, greedy and probing, hot and urgent.

Stiles goes with it.

"We're gonna need to tame that enthusiasm a bit," the alpha murmurs after their mouths have parted ways, "We don't want another trip to the ER, do we?"

"I hate you so much right now."

"No you don't." Derek leans down and kisses him once more, the smirk never leaving his smug, beautiful face. "Now, I want you to listen very carefully to what's gonna happen next, baby. You're gonna lie back, relax, and _let me. Take care of you."_

That last part is emphasized with the most seductive, sultry purr he thinks he's ever heard; and it sends chills shooting up his spine while blood plummets to the depths of his suddenly very eager and attentive dick.

Before he has time to even nod in agreement, though, his sweat pants are being ripped off of him, right along with his boxers; and Stiles' brain sort of short circuits as wet, writhing heat instantly surrounds his half hard cock.

He flails at the contact, his eyes darting to where Derek's gorgeous pink lips are spread wide around his rapidly growing erection, sinking slowly down the shaft until he can feel the wolf's nose burrowed deep into his pubic hair, hot breath searing his skin like a brand.

It's literally _the best._

"Oh my god, dude..." he gasps, his head falling back down to the pillow below him, "Fuck. You're gonna kill me, you know that? Death by insane, mind-blowing orgasm or something..."

Derek just hums in acknowledgment, and Stiles smiles so hard his cheeks hurt, because really, how is this his freaking life?

The mouth enveloping him starts to move, gently bobbing up and down along his leaking cock—sucking, and lapping, and swirling—sending delicious sparks of pure pleasure zip-zinging through the entirety of his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his curling toes.

He moans at the feel of it all, long and low and needy, then stretches out and does exactly what he's been told to do.

He lets Derek take care of him.

.

**End.**

.

* * *

_Again, thank you for reading, and sex responsibly. :)_


End file.
